Butterflies in Brooklyn
by Pru.Clearwater
Summary: Stiles is still raw after the death of his wife left him a single father when the abduction of a six-year-old boy throws him in the path of Derek Hale.


A quick shift in the the weight of his bed was the only warning Stiles Stilinski had that his son Scott was awake. His eyes flew open as forty-six pounds of five-year-old came crashing down on him.

"Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad! Wake up, Dad!"

Stiles was not a morning person and neither was Scottie. Normally.

"No," Stiles muttered. He wrapped his arms around his son and rolled onto his stomach, pinning the boy beneath him. "No, no, no. We do not get up before daylight."

Scottie squirmed, his fluff of strawberry blonde hair going every which way. "But it _is _daylight, Dad! And it's the first day of summer break! Can we go camping? Can we go to the beach?

Stiles groaned and burrowed into his pillow, which had been replaced by Scott's sleep-warm belly. Stiles' morning fuzz tickled him and he giggled but made no attempt to escape.

"Have you looked outside this morning?" he asked. It had been raining steadily for the last two days and Stiles was pretty sure his lawn was a now more of a moat. "Besides, you might not have school, but I still have work."

The boy grumbled. "Grandpa Stilts would let you off work if you asked nicely."

He smiled. When Scott was learning to talk he'd had no trouble learning how to say 'Grandpa Martin,' but asking him to say 'Grandpa Stilinksi' had been asking a little too much of the kid. Stilts he could say, so Stilts had stuck, especially when he learned what stilts were. Scottie was convinced his grandpa was the tallest man in the world. "Would it be fair to the other deputies if I got to go to the beach just because I'm the sheriff's son?"

Scottie sighed and went still in resignation. "No... but it would still be really cool."

The alarm clock on the bed table glared at him.

He thought about it. It really had been too long since the last time he and Scott had gone camping. "Well, I can't argue with that. I'll talk to Gramps and see if I can get some time off. Maybe we can all go out to the cabin for a few days."

Scottie bolted upright in his excitement and nearly broke Stiles' neck. "Could Uncle Scott come?"

Stiles yawned and nodded. "I'll ask Uncle Scott if he can get some time off, too."

"That would be so awesome!"

Stiles grinned. "It would be pretty awesome. Now go make your bed and bring down your dirty clothes and I'll make us some Elvis pancakes."

Scottie's eyes went big and he immediately hopped off the bed and darted towards his own room.

Stiles shook his head. There wasn't much that boy wouldn't do for peanut butter.

Stiles was already in uniform and ready to go when Erica breezed into the kitchen from the garage. "You're late," he told his near empty mug.

Erica raised an eyebrow as she kissed his cheek good morning. "You gonna dock my pay, boss man?"

He stood from where he'd been leaning against the kitchen counter. He drank the last of his coffee and set the mug in the sink. "No, but I might forget where I put those tickets to that King of the Cage match..."

Her soft brown eyes widened impossibly. "You wouldn't!"

Stiles smiled evilly but pulled two tickets out of his back pocket. She immediately snatched them from his hand, almost giving him a serious paper cut. She squealed in delight as she clutched the tickets to her chest, her wild, dirty blond curls practically vibrating around her head. "Oh, my god, Boyd is going to freak!"

Stiles doubted it. He only new Erica's boyfriend peripherally, but he was pretty sure any enthusiasm he had for mixed martial arts was a direct result of Erica's. Vernon Boyd was a gentle giant, and would probably have preferred spending the evening grooming the ice with his new Zamboni.

Erica sighed happily. "I can't believe you were able to get these."

Stiles shrugged as he turned to grab his keys, doing a quick pat-down to make sure he had everything. "Eh, I pulled over a guy..."

She gave him a smirk, which Stiles chose to ignore. "Anyway, I'm off. He's in the living room. He's had breakfast, but see if you can get him to eat something green with lunch. And no matter what he tells you, it's one hour of television _or_ one hour of video games. Not one of both."

"You're one to talk," she quipped as she went to the living room where Scottie was building a Lego Millennium Falcon. She ruffled his hair. "Hey, little monster."

"Don't let him regret his misspent youth!" he called out as he slipped out the back door with a wave.

The drive to the station was slower than usual. The storm had swollen overnight and there was worry over mudslides. The storm drains couldn't keep up with the rain and the flooding was causing traffic to slow through Beacon Hills proper, so he was surprised to find himself almost a full half-hour early. Most of the NOC patrol cars were in, the patrolmen inside the station busily filing shift reports. He shared a few greetings with the officers he knew before making his way to the desk he shared with another deputy. "Greenberg," he said in greeting.

Greenberg looked up wordlessly, his tired eyes telling Stiles everything he needed to know about his night.

"Wow," Stiles said, setting an old-fashioned glazed doughnut next to Greenberg's half-full mug of coffee. "Rough night?"

Greenberg looked at the doughnut mournfully but still picked it up and devoured it, still silent. Stiles left him to his business and headed toward the windowed-off corner of the squad room that served as the sheriff's office.

The blinds were down but not closed completely. Stiles could see his father on the phone and two other deputies, Johnston and Turns Plenty, standing anxiously next to his desk. He felt a chill. They were the heads of Beacon Hills County's CART program.

The door was slightly open so Stiles slipped in, waiting quietly as his father rattled off a license plate number. "Okay, read that back to me."

The two deputies had jotted down the number, too. Turns Plenty looked over at Stiles, his eyes somber. This didn't look good.

Sheriff Stilinski was pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Just keep him there. We'll send out the alert and I've already pulled everything together to start the search." He hung up the phone and stood.

"Okay, it's confirmed. Go ahead and send out the AMBER Alert and pull your teams in."

Stiles felt his stomach drop. Oh, god, a missing kid.

Johnston and Turns Plenty both nodded and hurried out of the office, leaving Stiles alone with his father. The sheriff was staring down at an open file. "What's going on, Dad?"

The sheriff looked up slowly, his face longer than usual. "Missing six-year-old boy. Don't know when he disappeared, but his guardian didn't notice until seven-thirty this morning. We think his father took him."

"Custody issues?"

"The worst kind, son,' he said, sighing. He closed the file and handed it to Stiles. "I've got to get everyone mobilised." He slipped out from behind the desk and into the squad room, closing the door behind him.

Stiles sat down with a sense of foreboding. Curled slightly in on himself in the soft leather, he opened the file. A picture of a little boy with big blue eyes and curly blond hair was paper-clipped to the face sheet. He wore a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

_Isaac Lahey, _he read_._ Almost a full year older than his own son, he was about two inches taller and maybe five pounds lighter. The identifying features made him cringe.

_Three millimeter scar below left eye; multiple keloid scars down back and backs of thighs._

Stiles knew what those scars meant.

The abuse had been discovered and reported by a family friend but it took months before the allegations were validated and the boy removed from his father's custody. Since the boy's mother and older brother were both dead, full custody had just been given to the him. The boy's father had been denied all parental rights.

Which must have been why Lahey snatched him.

The room was slowly growing brighter as he read, despite the persistent grey outside. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing what he would see when he opened them.

A petite woman with strawberry-blonde hair flowing down her back stood in the corner of the room nearest the windows. Her eyes were a brilliant green as she turned her head to smile at him.

"Hello, my love."

"Lydia..."

"It's been a long time. It's good to see you again."

Stiles had spent most of his life chasing the woman before him and he wanted desperately to go to her now, but he knew that she'd vanish if he got too close.

"Why are you here?" He didn't want to ask. He wanted to prolong her stay but he also knew she had a reason for being there.

"It's this one," she said, pointing to the folder in Stiles' hands. "This one is important. He must be saved."

Stiles looked down at the photo of the boy. "Isaac? Do you know where he is?"

She shook her head then looked over her shoulder, as if hearing something Stiles couldn't. When she looked back her eyes were sad.

"Tell him," she implored. "Tell him I could eat him up, I love him so."

Stiles felt his chest tighten. "Everyday," he promised. "Everyday, Lydia."

The light around her tiny frame was growing painfully bright. He stared into it, refusing to look away until the pain forced his eyes closed. When he opened them again, the light was gone. The only sound in the office was the steady smattering of the hard rain falling down.

Stiles found his father in conversation with the heads of the Child Abduction Response team. He waited until he was done to pull him aside.

"I'm in on this one."

The sheriff looked visibly relieved. "I didn't want to ask you."

Stiles looked away but nodded. "I know, Dad."  
"What do you need?"

Stiles took a deep breath. "A few hours. The weather is going to make this really hard. Rain... I'll have to go to his house."

"Whatever you need. Just keep an open line, okay? I'm not going to lie; I want to bring this kid home safely, but-"

Stiles clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving it a rough squeeze. "I know, Dad. I know. I'll see you later, all right?"

He nodded, returning the pressure. "All right, son."

Stiles wasted no time after that. He gathered what he needed and drove over to the address in Isaac's file.

There were two squad cars parked out front of the slightly run-down cottage on the edge of town. One of the deputies had left his light bar on. His lips were pursed in annoyance when he knocked on the front door. It was not one of the deputies but a detective that opened the it. She eyed Stiles sideways.

"Stilinski. Johnston didn't mention you were on the team."

Stiles new better than to lie to Murphy. She reminded him way too much of his wife. "I'm not. But I figured, hey, another pair of eyes?"

She wasn't completely mollified but stepped aside with a slight shrug anyway.

Stiles was pretty used to that shrug. The 'he's the sheriff's kid, what's the harm?' shrug. He'd gotten it a lot when he was first hired on at the sheriff's office.

He stepped around her and into what appeared to be a small living room/dining room combination. There was a small couch in front of an old television and an unstained pine table with mismatched chairs. Sitting in one was one of the younger deputies (no doubt the one who'd left his light bar going). He was writing furiously as another man paced back and forth across the linoleum floor. As soon as he saw him, Stiles knew who he was.

He was muttering something under his breath that Stiles could just barely make out.

"It's the rain; goddamned _rain_. How can anyone find anything in this?" he continued, seeming not to take any notice of his arrival. Stiles took the opportunity to study him.

He was tall now, taller even than Stiles. He was pulling at his jet black hair in distraction, like he wasn't used to it being there. He was well-built, easy muscles resting on a strong, broad frame and he had what looked like three or four days growth masking an impressive jawline. His stance as he cut across the floor spoke of military service, or at least extensive combat training. Stiles tried to remember what it had said in the file about the man before him, where he'd been for the last fifteen years, but he came up blank. All he could see were Isaac's sad eyes staring back at him from that little frayed-edged photo.

Murphy had moved back into the room and was speaking to the deputy in hushed tones, and it seemed like no-one was paying any attention to him, so he took the opportunity to move quietly around the room, his hand trailing above random toys and articles of clothing. Nothing was jumping out at him, so he slipped unnoticed down a long hallway, opening doors as silently as possible and peering in until he found what was clearly Isaac's room. The walls were a pale blue and the bottom half was almost completely covered over in childish scrawls. There was a pine dresser, unstained like the kitchen table, backed against one wall and a small bed opposite it. The bed was unmade; the blankets bunched around the foot of it. There were toys and clothes strewn about but it wasn't dirty. It was chaotic in the way a six-year-old's room really _ought_ to be.

Stiles stepped inside, careful not to tread on anything.

Holding out his hand again, Stiles let it drift over everything in reach, just hovering, not touching. He ran his hand over Spider-Man t-shirts, broken Transformers and well-worn books, but didn't stop until he came to a stuffed wolf tucked half under the boy's pillow. He closed his hand around it and sighed. He was running out of time; this would have to do.

As he was standing and slipping the wolf into his coat, his eye caught an unusually clear image in the drawings on the wall. It was what looked like a bigger version of the wolf he was hiding under his slicker. It was curled protectively around a small figure with yellow hair. There were stars in the sky above them, and what must've been a big, white moon.

**"****What are you doing here?"**

**Stiles yelped in a very undignified manner and spun around, pulling his hand out of his jacket with a start.**

**It was the man from the dining room. He was watching Stiles with pale eyes under heavy eyebrows. His posture was loose, but Stiles wasn't fooled. He could tell almost every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to pounce. "This is private... You're not supposed to be here."**

**Stiles felt a wave of dej****á****vu. He swallowed. "You're Derek Hale, aren't you?"**

**The man didn't respond, but his eyes ran over Stiles slowly, considering. Stiles tried to shake off the feeling of being measured for a coffin. "I'm Deputy Stilinski."**

**"****You're related to the sheriff." It wasn't a question.**

**"****His son."**

**A beat.**

**"****We're going to find Isaac," Stiles blurted out. He didn't know why he said it, but there was something about the man's expression. It was closed off, but Stiles could **_**see **_**the uncertainty in his eyes, and Stiles knew then that if anything happened to the boy, the man standing in front of him wouldn't survive it.**

**Hale seemed to weigh Stiles' words before his features settled resolutely.**

**"****Then go do it."**

Hale had stepped aside, giving Stiles room to leave. Stiles straightened up before slipping past him. That close, he could feel the anguish radiating off the man and had an almost overwhelming urge to comfort him somehow, but stuffed it down. The best thing he could do was find the boy.

Michael Lahey hadn't taken Isaac out of Hills County, Stiles discovered, and he was grateful for it. The sheriff had thrown up a code 666 just in case he tried, but Stiles had worried that it was already too late.

Even knowing that Isaac was still within the county lines, though, he'd been right (and so had Hale, oddly) about how difficult the rain was making finding the boy. As he drove in circles around Beacon Hills trying to catch some trace of the boy, he listened to the radio's ceaseless crackle. The storm was wreaking havoc with their lower bandwidth radios, causing them to skip like crazy, but he was able to make out enough. They had found Lahey's car about five miles north of the Hills and were centering the search there. Stiles just shook his head. He'd gone code nine and was on the south side, quickly finding himself moving westward.

He knew he was getting closer when the houses started to fall away. He was moving slowly down a two-lane county road with grassland to his left and the verge of the reserve on his right. A mile further he could see a tall, wrought iron gate and Stiles just _knew _he'd found him. Slowing down, he turned onto the macadam drive and found himself cruising through a dilapidated graveyard.

Lahey was the groundskeeper for the Beacon Hills Memorial Cemetery, Stiles remembered reading, but this was not it. This one was _old,_ weeds growing madly around ancient stones, forgotten statuary crumbling into the mud. No one had cared for these graves in ages, which made the sight of a brightly painted backhoe very out of place. He stopped the car.

Stiles unclipped his radio and depressed the talk button. "Car One-Seven to Dispatch."

The radio crackled and hissed. A familiar voice responded. "Dispatch. Go ahead, One-Seven."

"10-107, Dispatch. Possible 207 suspect at Newcastle Cemetery."

"10-0, Car One-Seven. Suspect unarmed, but considered dangerous."

"Copy that, Dispatch. 10-5 to Car One?"

"Copy, relaying."

"Approaching suspect; 10-23."

He checked his portable radio and sidearm before slipping out of the driver's seat. He kept his hand on his holster as he crept as quietly as possible across the macadam road and into the overgrown grass. As he got closer to the backhoe, he could hear what sounded like a small animal caught in a trap. He rounded the front and stopped dead in his tracks.

There was Isaac, sitting with his feet hanging in a small grave. His hair was matted against his head by the rain and there was a bright red gash across his cheek. He was trying to stifle the sound of his own crying. Sitting next to him, holding a gun to Isaac's head, was his father. He had his face turned up to the sky.

Stiles ducked quickly back behind the backhoe, hoping desperately that he hadn't been seen. He depressed the call button on the radio clipped to his epaulette. "Dispatch! 11-98, code 417 hostage situation!"

There was no response. "Acknowledge, Dispatch!"

The radio crackled loudly then went silent.

"Who's there?" he heard Lahey shout over the rising wind. Stiles swallowed but remained silent.

"I know you're there. Show yourself or so help me-!"

Isaac whimpered and Stiles felt a surge of rage and fear race through him.

He scrambled back around the digger. Lahey still had his gun pressed mercilessly against his temple, but now had his other hand wrapped around the back of Isaac's neck, squeezing it tightly. Isaac's eyes were screwed shut in pain, but he was biting his lip to keep from crying out.

As soon as Lahey saw Stiles, he released the boy's neck but pulled his whole body roughly against him. "What do you want?"

Stiles blinked. The rain was running down Lahey's face in rivulets, and his glasses were coated in fat drops. Stiles wondered how much he could actually see like that. Could he see the uniform? The car was far enough away and hidden by the backhoe, so maybe...

He made his voice as disarming as possible. "I... I thought I heard a child. I wanted to make sure he was all right."

"He's with his father now; he's fine. He's just a little cry-baby." He leaned over and yelled the last part in Isaac's ear, giving him a rough shake. His face twisted into a horrible approximation of a smile.

"Are you guys waiting for someone? I could give you a ride?" Stiles had no idea what he was saying. He just knew he had to get Lahey talking. He had to stall him for time.

"No, we're not going anywhere. This is it for us." He nodded towards the grave at their feet.

It was shallow. Isaac would still feel the rain.

Stiles swallowed and took a step forward, slowly bringing his had up to his holster. "Are you sure?" he asked loudly, trying to cover the sound of the guard popping loose. "He looks kind of cold. I've got some warm blankets in my car."

The boy was freezing, Stiles could tell. He was soaked through and shivering, his swollen lips a scary shade of blue smeared across his deathly pale face.

"Ah, he's got to toughen up. Nobody likes a weakling."

Lahey seemed to be vacillating between disgust at his son and mawkishness. "I just don't get it. Why're they trying to take my boy? He's useless. Almost as useless as his mother was. Neither of 'em worth the skin."

"But you love him. You love your son." Stiles tried to put everything he had into willing Lahey to believe it. "Look at him, Michael. He looks just like you."

He did. When Isaac tried to look away, Lahey seized him by the neck and forced him back around. Isaac cringed but couldn't pull away. "Look at him. He'll never be half the man his brother was but God help me, I do love him."

"Yes," Stiles agreed, taking another step forward. "You love him. He's your son and you only want him to be safe."

Lahey swayed a little, his grip on Isaac's neck relaxing. Isaac squirmed a few inches away, but the gun didn't move. "He's all I got left."

"He's cold, Michael. Why don't we just get him inside?"

Another step. This one too far.

"No!" Lahey shouted, pulling Isaac back to him. "No-one's taking my boy! He's mine!" His hands were shaking as he pressed the tip of the barrel harder against Isaac's head, forcing it to the side at an unnatural angle.

"You can't have him! No-one can have him! He's going to stay right here with me!"

Stiles held up his left hand. He'd managed to get his gun free of the holster, but his thumb slipped over the metal as he tried flipping the safety off. "I'm not going to take him! I'll—I'll get the blankets and bring them here, okay?"

Isaac's eyes widened in panic at the mention of being left. The boy was terrified, but didn't make a sound. Stiles was trying to catch his eye when something in the trees caught his.

At first, Stiles thought it was only the shadows of the trees shifting in the wind, but the shadow was rushing closer until it was right up behind the graves at Lahey's back. It then resolved itself into the shape of a man, crouched down low in the grass.

It was Derek Hale. Sweet Jesus, how'd he get clear out there?

He was staring right at Stiles as if trying to communicate something to him. A flash of lightning caught his eyes and they seemed to flash a glowing blue. He held up three fingers.

One.

In front of him, Lahey was shaking his head, his features falling into a resigned mask. "No... no blankets. We aren't going to need them anymore."

"No, Michael. You can't do this!"

Two.

Lahey's arm flexed. Stiles saw his finger twitch. The trigger pulled.

Stiles felt all the blood in his body rushing to his head before his heart stopped.

Three.

Time slowed down. Stiles drew his gun level with Lahey's chest and fired but he heard the report of Lahey's gun milliseconds before his own. Lahey's arm flew to the side as Isaac was grabbed from behind and pulled backward. There was a wet thud when Lahey hit the ground.

Blood roared loud in his ears as time sped back up. Keeping his gun pointed at him, Stiles rushed Lahey, kicking at the gun in his hand. It caught on his forefinger and Stiles had to kick at it again before it was clear. He looked around quickly for Hale. He found him almost five yards away, clutching at Isaac, whose body hung limply against him.

Stiles chest constricted. Oh, god, had he been too late?

Then he heard it—a low keening sound carrying over the wind. The boy was crying.

The look on Hale's face was almost painful, his impossible coloured eyes swimming with emotion, mostly relief.

Stiles bent down slowly and checked the pulse at Lahey's throat.

It wasn't there.

Stiles felt like a marionette with his strings cut. He fell to his knees in the mud, sitting on the heels of his regulation boots with his arms laying palms up along his thighs. He could feel the warmth of his gun leaching some of the cold out of his leg, but everything else was numb. His body was trying to curl in on itself, to take him away from the weakness that was invading his limbs. He wanted to let it.

The sounds of Isaac's sobbing roused him, though. He looked up to see Hale trying to calm the boy, but he didn't seem to know how. His movements were stiff, seemingly unused to physical contact.

Like a man in a dream, Stiles took a deep breath and stood, holstering his gun as he moved through the thick air back to his squad car. He opened the front door but didn't get in, reaching in instead and pulling out the radio.

"Car One-Seven to Dispatch, respond."

"10-4, One-Seven. 10-39?"

"Requesting ambulance, Newcastle Cemetery. I've got a six-year-old boy, 10-45c."

"EMTs are en route. Back-up units are also en route. The suspect?"

"10-55, Dispatch."

"Copy that, One-Seven." There was a pause. "What in the hell happened, Stiles? Are you okay?"

Stiles shook his head no, but lifted the radio once more. "I'm fine, Danny. Relay to Car One?"

"Standing by."

Stiles tried very hard to keep his voice even, he really did. "Tell him—could you tell my dad I'm going to need a ride home?"

"10-69, Car One-Seven."

Stiles dropped the radio on the front seat and left it there, the door open as he went around to the trunk. He reached inside and rubbed furiously at the markings in the carpet as he pulled out the two woolen shock blankets tucked in the side well. He picked up the stuffed wolf. It was singed along the tail, but still good.

When he got back, he found Hale under the slight overhang of a mausoleum. He could've sworn his eyes flashed again but there was no lightning this time. The rain was finally starting to let up.

"Hey, Isaac," he said softly as he approached them. "I've got someone here who was worried about you. He helped me find you."

Hale's eyes narrowed at the sight of the wolf, but said nothing about Stiles' theft. The boy turned his face away from where it was buried in Hale's chest. He still looked miserable, but blotches of colour were returning to his face. He reached out a shaky hand and took the wolf carefully from Stiles.

"Is my Daddy okay?" Isaac asked in a quivering voice. He had powder burns on the side of his face. God, that had been too close. Stiles was absolutely certain that if Hale hadn't grabbed him when he did, the boy wouldn't have made it.

Stiles swallowed. He glanced up at Hale, but the man looked away.

"No, Isaac," Stiles said softly, not seeing anything positive coming from lying to the child. "He's not okay, but we don't need to talk about that right now. We need to make sure you're all right first."

Isaac nodded slowly and tucked the wolf in between his shivering body and Hale's. Stiles unfolded the first blanket and wrapped it tightly around him, tucking it between his body and Hale's. When the back of his hand brushed against Hale's chest, Stiles' eyebrows shot up. Even though he was soaking wet, he was radiating heat like a furnace.

Stiles wasn't taking any chances though. He unfolded the second blanket and draped it over Hale's shoulders.

All it did was earn him a raised eyebrow. "I think you need that more than I do."

Stiles shook his head, but a shiver betrayed him. "I'll be fine. There's an ambulance on its way. Why don't you bring him back to the car until they get here? We need to get him warm."

Hale only nodded and followed Stiles back to the green and brown squad car. Derek climbed in the back seat with Isaac still clinging to him desperately. Stiles started the engine and cranked up the heater, promptly fogging all the windows. With the doors closed and their view of the graveyard obstructed, the inside of the car began to grow into an entire world, shut away from everything with the silence stretching in every direction.

It was Hale who spoke first. "How did you know he was here?"

Stiles tried not to think about the dead body lying in the rain twenty yards from him. He shrugged and toyed with the radio. "A hunch, I guess. I mean, he's a grave digger, you know?"

"Were you going to check every graveyard in California?"

"If I had to."

Hale made a noise like a snort. Stiles looked back at him through the cage, but his face was masked by the wire, its crossed lines blurring his features. There was too much familiarity in the image.

"You haven't told me how _you_ got here; how did you know?"

"I didn't." His voice was heavy with sackcloth and ashes, though Stiles couldn't even guess at why. "I... I recognised your voice on the radio."

Stiles wasn't able to hide his disbelief. They'd only spoken once.

"It wasn't clear; the deputy couldn't make it out, but as soon as I heard Newcastle Cemetery, I knew."

"But how? And how did you get here so quickly?"

Hale turned his face away. "The ambulance is almost here."

Stiles cocked his head to one side. He couldn't hear anything. "Don't change the subject."

"I came through the reserve. I drove as far as I could, then ran the rest of the way."

Stiles considered. It would've been much faster, as the crow flies. And Stiles saw how fast he cleared the trees and came up behind Lahey. He hadn't even been winded.

He opened his mouth, a million new questions replacing the ones before them, when he finally heard the sound of sirens approaching. They were still a way off. The cemetery was nearly at the county line, and with most of the sheriff's department scouring the north side of town, they were even further out.

"You've got good ears."

Hale huffed, but didn't say anything. Isaac looked tired but seemed very unwilling to close his eyes, for which Stiles was grateful. The gash on the boy's check meant Lahey had stuck him, and Stiles had no idea how much force it took to concuss a six-year-old.

Not much, probably.

"Tachypsychia," Hale said, apropos of nothing.

"What?"

"The feeling of time contracting or slowing around you during stressful situations. I've heard other soldiers talk about it, but I've never experienced it myself before today."

Stiles looked away. He wished he could blame the way he felt on a simple adrenaline dump but at least it confirmed Hale had served at some point.

The sirens were loud enough now that Stiles could tell exactly how close they were. They were about to turn onto the cemetery's drive. A moment later, they were there.

Stiles was almost on empty when he stood up out of the car to wave the EMTs over. They immediately went to the back of the squad car, making sure Isaac was safe to move.

He resisted at first, but Hale stayed close, climbing up into the back of the ambulance with him as the EMTs took his vitals and checked him over thoroughly. Stiles had been right; the boy had a concussion. They needed to take him to the hospital for a CT scan. The burns on his face would heal fine, but the cut on his cheekbone would need stitches.

Stiles sighed. Just another scar for the boy—another physical reminder of the scars no-one could see.

They wanted to check Stiles, too, but he assured them he was fine. One of the EMTs just shook her head but didn't push it. Stiles would have to go to the hospital anyway. It was standard procedure after an officer involved shooting. He'd get a full work-up, like it or not.

The EMTs closed Hale and the boy up in the back and slapped the doors and eased the ambulance back down the drive. Less than a minute later, the first squad car rolled up. Two deputies disembarked. One immediately headed toward the backhoe and began securing the scene, the other approached Stiles. The deputy took Stiles' sidearm and statement, even though Stiles would have to submit a full report of his own. He surrendered his keys, too, certain they wouldn't find anything weird left in the trunk.

Another squad car had pulled up and the scene was getting crowded when Car One came screaming up the macadam, with the Sheriff leaping out almost before it stopped. He grabbed Stiles in a rough, tight hug. Stiles didn't care that there were four other deputies watching as he buried his face in this father's neck. "Thank God you're all right, son."

"I found him, Dad. He's going to be okay."

"Come on, you're sopping wet. Let's get this parade over with."

The sheriff led Stiles to his car and shut him inside. Stiles numbly tugged his seatbelt on while his father gave directions to the remaining deputies and the coroner, who'd arrived just after him. There would be an autopsy, though it was pretty clear he'd died from an extremely well-placed bullet to the heart.

Stiles was grateful when they were finally pulling out of the cemetery. The drive to Beacon Hills Memorial was silent, the sheriff glancing over every few minutes as if to make sure Stiles was still there. The worst of it was passed before he left Stiles in the exam room. He returned later with a change of clothes from Stiles' locker.

He was cleared him but the doctor gave him a prescription for anti-anxiety meds which Stiles had no intention of filling. They entered the sheriff's station through the back lot. Isaac's story had reached the larger news outlets, and there was even a satellite van out front. Stiles didn't envy the news conference his father would have to give, but was glad he'd be home by then.

It only took him a few minutes to write up his report. He'd been planning it out since the moment he'd radioed for a bus. It was succinct, to the point, and detailed only where it needed to be. Once it was filed, the sheriff took him into his office and told him he would be relieved of duty for a week while an inquest took place. He'd still draw pay.

It was five o'clock when his father walked him to his front door. He offered to take Scott until Stiles recuperated but Stiles declined. He was better with his son around.

Inside, he could hear the news coming from the living room. "officer involved shooting. Our sources confirm that the child is safe and being treated for exposure and minor injuries at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. No word on the condition of the arresting officer or the suspect-"

The television cut off as soon as Erica saw him. "One more time, Stiles, I swear to God-"

Before she could finish whatever threat of bodily harmed she'd been preparing for him, Scottie came rushing down the stairs and flew into his father's arms. Stiles knelt down and held him. Neither of them said anything.

A moment passed like that before Erica spoke again. "The sheriff told me what you were doing. Stiles, you're going to-"

"-need to ask a favour of you," he interjected, giving her a meaningful look. She glanced down at where Scottie was watching them both, his eyes worried. "Can you stick around for a couple of days? Two at the most, I promise."

She looked between them, considering. "Sure," she said finally. "I'll see if Boyd can bring me some things."

Stiles sighed. "What would I do without you?"

She just rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen to call her boyfriend.

Stiles pulled back to look at Scott. "Hey, buddy. How was your day?"

"I heard about the boy on the news. Erica said you were out looking for him."

Stiles nodded slowly. "Yes. And I found him. He's safe, but now I'm really tired and need to go to sleep, but I might sleep for a long time. I need you to behave for Erica while I do, okay?"

Scott nodded. "Okay."

Stiles filled himself full of granola, drinking almost a quart of milk to wash it down. He took a quick shower, just letting the water wash over him and not really making any effort to get clean. But the shower was good, the warm water finally working the remaining cold out of his bones. He dried off and pulled on a pair of sweat pants. Scottie had put on his Iron Man pyjamas while Stiles was in the shower and was already tucked up on Lydia's side of the bed. Stiles pulled back the covers and crawled in, wrapping himself around his son.

"It's okay, Dad. Let's go to sleep."

And they did.

Stiles slept for almost two days straight. He skimmed the surface of consciousness a couple of times, but it was noon on the the second day when he woke up again. The bright May sun was pouring through his window, his blankets were tangled around his legs and there wasn't a pillow in sight. He sat up and rubbed his face briskly. The change in position reminded him that he hadn't pissed in over thirty-two hours. He shuffled quickly to the bathroom and relieved himself. On his way back to his room he heard the television on downstairs and he followed the sounds.

"-will be an inquest, though sources state that there were some questions regarding the only witness to the shooting, the boy's guardian, whose name has still not been released. While being hailed as a hero, we here at King5 are just now learning that this isn't the first time Deputy Stilinski, the son of the current sheriff, has been involved in-"

Stiles took not a little pleasure in turning off the television.

Erica rolled her eyes at the blank screen. "It's like they can't just be happy you found him—they just have to find _something _to keep the story going."

"It'll die down. Beacon Hills is too small to hold anyone's attention too long," he told her. She nodded in agreement as she stood up from the couch and gave him a warm hug.

"I meant what I didn't say, though," she said.

Stiles closed his eyes. He knew it. He cleared his throat. "Where's Scottie?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you," she replied, smiling. "But I can tell you that your dad and Melissa have been by to check on you. I thought she was going to go crazy; kept talking about IV fluids and putting tubes where tubes shouldn't ever go."

Stiles grimaced, hoping to every higher being that she hadn't examined him while he was unconscious.

"By the way," Erica began, finally releasing him. "Your breath stinks, dude. You should go get cleaned up before Scottie gets back."

He smacked his lips obnoxiously. Someday he was going to master sleeping with his mouth closed. "You heading home?"

She looked at Stiles like he was stupid. "Hell, yes," she replied, already gathering her things. "I've been without sex for _two days _thanks to your heroics. FYI, you owe me _all_ the favours."

Stiles just rolled his eyes and went back upstairs to shower and dress. He was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee when Scottie came running in the back door.

"Dad, you're awake!" he yelled, launching himself at his father. "Grandma 'lissa says you were in a coma, that sometimes people go into comas when their bodies are too stressed out and need to heal, that it happens all the time so I didn't have to worry. She brought a stethoscope and listened to your heart and looked into your eyes and asked Grandpa Stilts if she could _put a needle in your arm_."

Stiles was going to have to have a serious discussion with his step-mom about personal boundaries.

"God, Stiles, does he ever stop talking?"

Standing in the back door with his arms full of groceries was Stiles' step-brother and Scottie's namesake. Stiles grinned wildly and waited for Scott to put the bags on the counter before reigning him into a tight hug. "Hey, bro!"

Scott was grinning too as he thumped Stiles on the back, relief at seeing Stiles up written clear across his face.

"Well, he had to get _something_ from Stiles," quipped Scott's wife, Allison, as she followed her husband into the kitchen. She had a diaper bag slung over her shoulder and an eight-month-old baby girl cradled in her arms.

Scottie had crawled up onto the counter and was disemboweling the grocery bags. "Hey," he said, looking over at his aunt and pouting. "Hey, I can beat Erica at Super Smash Bros, too."

They all laughed at that, but after a moment, Scott looked at him seriously. "I'm glad you're all right, man."

Stiles shook his head. "It wasn't that bad, really." He smiled over at Allison, who was settling down at the kitchen table. "I've been a lot worse off than this. You know that."

Stiles could tell his words did nothing to assuage his best friend's fears, so he changed the subject. "What are you doing the next couple of days?" he asked.

Scott shrugged. "Nothing that can't be rescheduled. Why?"

Stiles reached over and ruffled Scottie's hair. "I was thinking we could head out to the woods for a few days. Maybe camp out until things blow over."

Scottie's eyes lit up. "Camping? We can go camping?"

Scott looked over at his wife, his eyes full of regret. "I'd like to Allison's parents are coming into town and the baby is still such a handful..."

Allison rolled her eyes. "Oh, you giant puppy. It's just my mom coming in, and she'd be more than happy to help me look after Lyds. You three should go. You haven't been out to the woods in a long time."

Scott kissed his wife soundly and Scottie jumped off the counter with glee. He raced up the stairs, howling.

"Let the wild rumpus begin!"

And it did.

That had been three months ago.


End file.
